


The Birdcage

by Amymel86



Series: Tumblr Prompts [25]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Modern AU, actual incest, all the other starks are dead, bouncer!jon, sorry starks, stripper!sansa, well.... half sibling incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:01:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22760635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amymel86/pseuds/Amymel86
Summary: The whole club feels heavy, smells like sweat and whiskey and cheap perfume. The lighting is always low – discreet. She’s not meant to be admired like this – stockings licking criss-cross lines over her thighs, glitter and rhinestones pasted onto her nipples. She’s more dazzling without all that, and Jon often hates himself for being aware of it. No, Sansa Stark is made to laze under summer skies, a ring of daisies on her ginger head and her top riding up, revealing that sliver of soft skin that he wants to lay his lips on – wants to peck kisses along the waistband of her denim shorts, nip at her hipbone and-But he can’t of course.She is his sister after all.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: Tumblr Prompts [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/804069
Comments: 34
Kudos: 230
Collections: JonsaValentine2020





	The Birdcage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vivilove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivilove/gifts).



> For Vivi! This one came to mind after you gave me the word prompt 'fishnets' ;)

Clapping a heavy hand on the man’s shoulder - perhaps more forcefully than he really should - Jon grunts, jerking his head towards the sign above the bar;

_Pleas refrain from touching the dancers, except where giving tips. Anyone found flouting this rule will be escorted from the premises._

Spotlights flash in the dim club, but Jon had seen him – some punter thinking he could get away with stroking her outer thigh. Maybe others would’ve missed the brush of the man’s thumb, once, twice over her fishnets, but not Jon.

There’s other girl’s he’s meant to be watching out for, hips rolling in the laps of The Birdcage’s paying customers. But there’s one that he pays particular attention to. Eyes always finding her. Red hair, soft curves, longest legs you ever did see.

And he could be forgiven for being drawn to her. Checking in on her. Making sure the men she entertains don’t overstep.

She is his sister after all.

_Half._

The other dancer’s think it’s cute. The way he took this security job to look out for her. Tells him they wish their families cared half as much about what happens in _the cage_.

He’ll smile and nod. Eyes finding her again across the room, allowing fat fingers to fumble notes into her panties at the hip. Heart sinking every time he watches her climb onto the lap of another man.

 _They wouldn’t think it was so cute if they knew._ Jon shakes the demon voice away. Rises from his bar stool to go and stand vigil behind his sister’s customer’s seat.

The whole club feels heavy, smells like sweat and whiskey and cheap perfume. The lighting is always low – discreet. She’s not meant to be admired like this – stockings licking criss-cross lines over her thighs, glitter and rhinestones pasted onto her nipples. She’s more dazzling without all that, and Jon often hates himself for being aware of it. No, Sansa Stark is made to laze under summer skies, a ring of daisies on her ginger head and her top riding up, revealing that sliver of soft skin that he wants to lay his lips on – wants to peck kisses along the waistband of her denim shorts, nip at her hipbone and-

But he can’t of course.

She is his sister after all.

_Half._

It’s only him and her now. He’s told her to quit more than once and knows they can’t afford for her to take his advice. She’s very good at her job after all – earned herself the place of ‘favourite’ to many a patron.

Sometimes – _for only half a heartbeat_ – he’s secretly glad that the rest of them are gone. That they’re not here to see the way he looks at her now. Then he adds those thoughts to the long list of reasons he hates himself.

He would tell them all not to get on that flight if he could go back in time. Perhaps, if the rest of them were still around... perhaps he wouldn’t have this sick longing like a heavy stone at the pit of his stomach - all for his own sister... _perhaps_.

That stone grows in weight when he watches the way she’s forced to writhe _just right_ up against the man with the money to make her do so. She smiles down at the customer, always so polite, knows how to draw more tips. She’ll offer to pay to replace the parts of his broken down car again. He’ll refuse - _again_. Maybe they’ll splash out on take-out instead? 4am, the club a distant memory, and them back at their little apartment downtown. Sansa no longer wearing those fake lashes and scarlet lips. He’d like that.

He’s meant to be scanning the whole club, looking out for the safety of all the pretty birds in this cage. But he can barely take his eyes from her – the way she moves, the way she smiles, the way none of these scumbags deserve to even look in her direction.

_Least of all you._

Her customer’s hands are by his sides while Jon watches his sister straddle him. Their eyes meet over the head of the man and he finds it difficult to decipher the look. He moves closer. Jon’s almost got the hang of soothing the beast that wants to snap the necks of all the men who look at her like the one currently beneath her. Beneath her in all regards. And then, the lech has the audacity to put his hands on her skin. _‘Grind a little harder, baby,’_ he shouts over the base of the music, fingers curling around her hips, trying to move her how he likes. The beast snarls.

“You’d better get your hands off her before I break your fucking wrists,” Jon growls in the man’s ear, a fistful of his shirt at his shoulder.

The sleazy smile slides from his face, but he’s still got Sansa in his hands and that just won’t do. “C’mon, man,” he tries, “we’re jus’ having a little fun here. It’s not like I’m-“

Before the guy can finish, Sansa’s rising from his lap, one long leg swinging back. Easy. Graceful. Like she were doing nothing more than dismounting a horse after a brisk canter. Her hair flicks over her shoulder as she paints a smile across her blood red lips. “Sorry, sweetie,” she says to her customer, fishing out the bills from the top of her stocking to hand them back. “I just remembered it’s my break. I’m sure one of my friends will love to dance for you.”

With another meaningful look to Jon, she turns on her ridiculous heels and makes her way towards backstage. ‘ _Hey! Hey!_ ’ her customer protests. Both he and Sansa pretend not to hear. Jon follows along behind her, ignoring the topless blonde up on the stage, currently working her little crowd of businessmen, or the other one who’s doing something rather impressive, high and split-legged on the pole. He tries to not let his eyes fall to his sister’s ass as she sashays her way through the club. But – well, if you’ve seen Sansa’s ass before, you _might_ forgive him a glance or five. _Maybe_.

“You can’t keep doing this to me, ” she says to the reflection in the illuminated mirror. He’d followed her all the way to the dancer’s dressing room. There are rails of lingerie and racy costumes, a wall lined with mirrors, lotions, potions, make up and lockers. The floor is almost always covered in glitter.

He closes the door and flings himself down in one of the chairs. “Doing what? That scumbag was all over you.”

Sansa peels her second eyelash off and turns to face him. “That’s how I get more tips, Jon. All the girls allow a little touching to keep the customer’s happy.”

“Not you.” He shakes his head and looks away, stares at a pair of plum-coloured velvet platform shoes that have been abandoned under the counter.

She sighs, moves closer. He doesn’t need to look to know it, can feel her warmth approaching, can smell the scent of her honeysuckle bodybutter. “Jon,” she says, cupping a gentle hand under his chin to make him look at her. “Just look away. Watch over the other girls instead.”

He frowns, jaw tensing before he jerks his face from her grasp. He’s not going to do that. Can’t bring himself to look away.

“Jon, I know you’re good to me, but-“

 _Good to her?_ The beast inside gives a snide little chuckle. Oh sure, he can tell himself he’s just being good to her. Being a dutiful brother. Shout and scream at the beast that he was not born from jealousy, possessive flavour and sick desire, but something altogether more wholesome.

“Jon, look at me.” He won’t. “ _Look at me.”_

Squeezes his eyes shut. Refuses like a petulant child. If he looks at her she might see why, she might catch a glimpse of the beast.

“Jon?”

She huffs when all that meets her is his silence. And then she’s on him. Not like how she drapes her pyjama-clad legs when they watch movies together, not like when he teases her and her fingers are everywhere – trying to hunt out his most ticklish patches of skin. No, she’s on him like she was on that guy with the money. The guy Jon has already forgotten all about.

Jon’s eyes go wide and his hands – _the Gods damn his fucking hands_ – they find her thighs, thumbs brushing against the tops of her hold-ups. He licks his lips up at her as she stares downward at him – a challenge for him to _dare_ look away now.

Sansa’s brow arches. _“Please refrain from touching the dancers, except where giving tips,”_ she parrots the house rule back at him. Jon retracts from her like her skin had burnt through his palms. She smirks. “See, you don’t need to jump down punter’s throats every time. It just feels kind of natural to –“

_Ah, shit._

Jon watches as her brow scrunches. Knows she can feel him. She’s straddled many a lap and is well aware of what a cock getting hard beneath her feels like. He braces himself for her disgust, for her anger – for her to spring to her feet and flee her pervert of a brother.

He swallows his fear, knowing that he deserves whatever it is she’ll throw at him. A blush blooms on her cheeks and she tucks some of her copper locks behind her ear. “Or,” she starts, “maybe... maybe you don’t like them touching me for a different reason?”

He blinks up at her. His heart is trying desperately to escape the confines of his ribcage. “Different reason?” he asks, throat dry, voice scratchy.

“I think maybe-“ Sansa rocks her hips against him, rubbing against his hardened length just right. Jon sucks in a sharp breath. “Maybe you don’t like them touching me, because you want to be the one to touch me?”

His only answer is to sink his teeth into his lower lip. Sansa’s still moving in his lap, writhing and grinding herself against him as they stare at one another, sharing shallow breaths.

His hands find her thighs again. Fingers hooking through the holes of her fishnets, holding onto her like she’s his prize catch that he’ll never let slip away.

“Tell me to stop,” she whines. “Tell me to stop, Jon. Tell me how disgusting I am for trying to get off on my own brother.”

_Never._

His hands slide up, the curves of her ass cheeks filling his hands. Sacred flesh. He squeezes, urging her along. The flush that trickles down her throat and chest is a million times more enticing than the glitter she smothers on her nipples.

“Tell me to stop.” She’s panting. He’s harder than he’s ever been in his life, and he’d give anything – _anything_ – to see her come apart while riding him. “Tell me... tell me... anyone could walk in and see how disgusting I am.”

“If anyone dare calls you disgusting, they’ll have me to talk to.” Jon’s panting too. His fingers twitch, palms smoothing up until he’s holding her waist. Sansa’s moan goes straight to his cock as she rocks her hips harder. Jon’s own bucking up into her movements.

“Jon,” she sighs, dipping forward, forehead kissing with his. Her hair has fallen either side of their faces, curtaining them off from the world they find themselves in. “Be good to me, Jon,” she whispers.

“ _Always_.”

Her eyes are closed as she concentrates on her pleasure. Fingers biting into his shoulders where she grips him tight. “Tell... tell me to stop,” she’s whispering now and he knows she barely means it.

“Come, Sansa,” he asks of her instead, her shuddering breath washing over him when he does. “Come for me.”

He sees when she does; a sharp inhale, hips stuttering and the most gorgeous little feminine yelp as though her orgasm had taken her by surprise despite her trying to chase it down. He’s not long following – not after witnessing that. His groan is lengthy and his heart feels like it might burst as he holds her against him tighter, eyes screwed shut. When he opens them again, he’s faced with wide blue eyes and devil-red panting lips. She looks as though she’s going to say something.

_BANG BANG BANG!_

The knock on the door has his sister scrambling off of his lap where he sits there, cold and missing her already. A dusting of glitter on his shirt and a sticky mess in his boxers.

_“Sansa, you’re break is over now! One of your regulars is asking after you!”_

“O-okay! I’ll be out in a moment!” she squeaks as they stare at one another, realisation pulsating where their pleasure begins to fade.

“Sansa, I-“

She bolts before he can finish.

_Shit._


End file.
